Les Études
– The Elements: Water
Copyright
2012 by Oluwatosin Ojumu
Published by Ore-Ofe Publishing at
Smashwords
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Les
Études - The Nature Series: Samples
: Free Ebook of Samples of Études from the Nature Series
Les
Études - The Nature Series: Full Collection :
Full Collection of Études
from the Nature Series
Samples from other
ebooks
Les
Études – Solitude: SAMPLE: Prisons of Light
Note
from the Author: Oluwatosin Ojumu
About
Oluwatosin Ojumu
**********
Dreamy
Reflections
A woman is walking forward. Behind her a
grand building, whose steeple boldly pierces the sky.
The clouds
clash and tumble in self importance, asserting their majesty.
The
woman walks oblivious to the grandeur of her surroundings. She is
dressed simply, she walks quietly.
About her head missiles fly
unobserved, unnoticed. Buildings and clouds at times shimmer, at
times glare in sharp forcus. The woman herself disappears....she
reappears again.
The woman that commands our gaze is a
reflection, as are the buildings around her and the cloud faces in th
sky. The woman is a metaphor for the other side of consciousness; of
sleep, of memories, of imagination. The missiles about her head are
gaps where the paving slabs have been fitted together.
Where
we have been observing the shadows, the real buildings stand, the
real woman walks, each step mirrored, if imperfectly, by a hazy
reflection.
**********
Furore
A
dark outline of buildings daubed across the sky. Just discernible
from the dark outlines are pillars, windows, limestone, suggesting a
dark music. Ignorant, unconcerned, clouds tumble against one another,
racing, full and strong, naughty and playful.
The sun smiles
angrily down onto his kingdom, punishing his disobedient subjects.
A
figure stands bowed, humbled, repentant. A sea of steam arises
around her, almost higher than she is tall, but she is oblivious of
the ground fog. She is young, no longer a girl, not yet a mother.
A
few metres from her the sun's malevolence is dimmed somewhat in the
rain-mirrored pavement, but his anger is reflected off the vapour
that is rapidly rising upward, and filling the town like the smoke of
a sin offering offered for a whole town of transgressors.
The
figure continues to stand: forlorn, dejected, sad, herself the dark
shadow surrounded by white. Still she prays, still she weeps, still
she begs from the desperation of her silence.
Abover her the
clouds continue undisturbed, uncaring in their mischevious
competition. Their concern is not with the world of men.
**********
The
Conductor
The conductor stands, his arms oustretched,
poised, his wand quivering.
Before him his orchestra, ten thousand
strong, tune up their instruments, producing now only a cacophony, as
a prelude to a beautiful symphony.
And yet there is already here a
harmony of sorts.
The light seeping in onctuously glides and
drips off each performer, like liquid gold, like petrol, as the music
will glide and the melodies will drip slowly and juicily to the
ground.
The arena of the orchestra is shaded in different hues of
monochrome, blending in with each other in a scale of single toned
colour, as the notes will blend in together in powerful
resonance.
Above them all the conductor waits, tense, excited.
Finally his arms drop. As the music leaks out of him, it slowly
flows to each instrument, setting it gloriously alight until the
whole arena is aflame.
**********
Treetrunk
The
rain forms a high gloss varnish on the pavement, spread by an
unseeing, impartial eye over smoothness and flaws alike, reflecting
distorted tree trunks in its broken veneer.
Each tree trunk is
like a wave form with its zigzagged shadow, a piece of solid music
projected brilliantly into the air, with dizzying, dazzling
virtuosity.
A man walks, his shadow reflected in the polished
pavement. Talking on his mobile phone, he is playing another kind of
music, making waves of another kind. He is talking to the air, he is
talking to the trees, he is talking to the music.
**********
Blue
Above the sky is blue, hung with resplendent candy floss
clouds from which shimmery light rays gently bounce. Various bodies
are walking around. They are wearing everyday clothes – teeshirts,
shorts, handbags. They walk about dazed, confused, bathed in blue
light, gazing downwards, as if trying to reintegrate themselves into
the lives they knew so recently.
But a concrete wall now
separates them from that world, or a glass ceiling – but they are
on the wrong side of that ceiling, seeing everything clearly, looking
down from above, forever separated from it.
They start to
look at one another, exchanging looks of shock, stupefaction, wonder.
The braver ones in life remain the brave ones now. They are the
ones to voice now the question on everyone's minds.
"Wait,
this is..this is... we're in....aren't we?! So we're ...."
The
bravery does not extend far enough to say the word.
Someone
else's voice excitedly cuts in, drowning out the words that hang
unspoken in the air.
"Wait, I think that that's my mother!"
Then -
"Oh my goodness, I think that that's me!"
A
few seconds later, perhaps up to a minute, more quietly this time:
"I
think that that was me."
Slowly the realisation dawns for
everyone. There can be no going back. At least they're in this
together. Strangers a mere heartbeat ago, now friends forever – in
a different kind of forever.
New questions quickly arise,
echoed in everyone's eyes, by their silence, if not by their
lips.
"Well, if we are....and if this is...well where
is.....(looking around – everyone starts looking around) - you
know....you know?!"
And then the voice of reason
and responsibility asserts itself. A school prefect, head boy, star
employee, and as much a leader now as ever.
"I suppose we had
better go to register."
**********
Man and
Child
A boy and man are walking together, the boy's hand
outstretched in excited emotion as he tries to explain a difficult
concept to his father. The father listens patiently, proud of his
boy, eager to encourage him and guide him gently.
Now the boy is
relating a story, which has flowed on so naturally from what he was
discussing before. The father continues to listen, continues to
contribute helpfully.
They walk on, heedless of their rain
battered surroundings. They have already come this far.
They
walk into the mist. They walk into the unknown. Who knows where
they will be ten years from now – or fiften years, or twenty
years? For now, they walk securely together.
"The
Child is the Father of the Man." For now the child walks
alongside the father that he too will one day become. Tomorrow is
unclear, today is a beautiful day, after the rain.
**********
Rain
Dance
On the window, raindrops are falling in regular
rhythm. "Each one keeps to its ranks", neat, evenly
spaced, orderly. Through the window two indistinct figures dance.
They talk, they laugh, they move. Their movements are softened
through the unclear sceeen, lending to them a gentle poetry.
The
couple are a man a wife, once childhood sweethearts, now long
married.
Sweet words are exchanged, inaudible through the glass,
but with a mutual tenderness that can almost be touched even from
here.
Middle-aged love dances in the rain. There are to be
no scolds, no grumbles, no indifferent mutters tonight. Just being
and smiling and getting soaked, and later on warming up around a
roaring fire!
**********
Symmetries
A
man stands on a bridge above a canal. To his left and bright,
leafless branches bristle in leafless symmetry.
The man stands,
quietly watches. Ahead of him the scene is the same, behind him the
scene is the same; the bridge and trees and trees and bridge are
mirrored in the canal beneath.
The bridge and its reflection
form a circle of symmetry as he walks on, he continues on the cycle
of life. He is currently standing halfway along the bridge, but in
time he must walk on, and complete the circle.
As he walks
so does his shadow, completing its own vibrating circle in the
shimmering waters below.
**********
The
Boy-Frog
A child plays on all fours on the rainy pavement.
With his palms to the ground and his knees tucked behind his arms,
and his head facing the ground, he looks like a boy frog, hopping
around on a concrete pond. The boy smiles at his own reflection,
oblivious to the world around him.
He is at peace with the
world, he is caught in the wonder and fascination of childhoold. He
will continue playing here for minutes, if not hours, heedless of
being wet or catching a cold, adding one extra episode to his
memories of a blissful childhood.
At long last the moment
passes, the frog hops away, the boy looks up.
**********
Kingdoms
The
sun whispers over a meditative seascape. Not a beach, really, more a
sea facing sandy wilderness.
In the near distance a person walks
– a man? A woman? A child? They walk further and further away.
Their footsteps quietly assertive over kingdoms of sand, where each
grain is an eternity and each step is a geological age, and kingdoms
and eternities and ages swim in an ocean of blue sepia.
The
person walks further and further away. Are they walking into the
sea, or are they merely walking into their own memories? Soon they
are but a point on the distance, and then they are gone, swallowed up
not by the depths of the waves, but rather by their own shadow.
**********
A World
without Man
Bands of clouds are stretched tightly, thinly
across a silent sky. The sun peeks in inquisitively from the
corner.
In the background, the sea churns in small time
restlessness. The light from the heavens is reflected and bounces
off the ground, sand, stones, pebbles and rocks.
The sand newly
scrubbed by the outgoing tide is wrinkled, furrowed, like the skin of
the earth, long soaked in its marine bath.
The sun is not yet
setting, however, the scene sighs with the latent energy of a mid to
late afternoon. This world is at peace, the peace of a thousand
waves lapping in unison or a thousand thousand clouds inching across
the sky.
This is a world without man.
Might this be
what the world would have looked like, if no man had ever arisen to
disturb the tranquility?
A world without man! Imagine! What a
thought! What a vision – a world without man!
**********
Red
Tree
A tree stands in the red sky of the setting sun. Its
branches fan out, so that it looks like a three-dimensional gingko
leaf.The land under it is black, fertile, even, with a smaller tree
crouching under its shadow.
The sun slips and falls down
behind a distant mountain, leaving only the fingertip of its
brightness, and the smudge of its aura.
The accurate mirror of
an undisturbed lake surface reflects the sanguinello sky and the
branches of blackened burgundy.
The scene simmers for a few
quiet moments, minutes and hours. All is still. Finally the sun
completely disappears, and all turns to black.
**********
Spikes
Waterlogged
marshland, where spiky leaves jut out of sand flats.
Not a pond,
or a lake, but marshland. Clumps of plants.
In the distance, wild
horses, riderless.
**********
A World
with Man
The bands of clouds remain stretched across the
sky. The sun darts playfully, caressing the earth with a gentle
smile. The tide is slowly coming in. Satisfying pools of water have
appeared, quenching the earth beneath.
In the distance two figures
walk, quietly, purposefully.
This is a world with men, the
world as it was created to be. Earth and sky and clouds and pools
stand on alert, a frame, a backdrop patiently waiting for the star
actors.
Finally the people come into view. Here they are!
Here they come!
**********
Vista
A
vista of sand, a Sahara of the north stretches out beyond the visible
range. Waves of sand, ondulating, each grain a tiny stipple.
And
on it stretches. Grey, cold, desert sand, instead of piercingly hot
gold red and brown hues.
In the middle of the scene, a small
strip of water. Not a mirage, as there is clearly a small boat, some
figures sitting. They are going fishing in the desert, to haul up a
catch from the waves of grey.
###
Samples
from other books
Les
Études
– Solitude: Prisons of Light.
This is a sample from "Les Études – Solitude" available from Smashwords at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/133569
Prisons
of Light
A man waits. He stands silhouetted against the
window, of a thousand refractive prisms. The late afternoon and the
cold stare of marble underfoot conspire to keep his shadow held
captive in each prism's reflection. This architecture was designed
to be grand and imposing, a secular answer to the confident turrets
of faith; architecture providing, yes, light, but empty light,
uncommunicative light.
The man stands. It could be an office
block, or a hospital complex, or a cathedral to modern art. He could
be an executive, or an anxious father to be, awaiting news of wife
and child. Or he could be a conductor relaxing before his next
concert.
The man waits. He has already been waiting thirty
minutes. Time to wait in silence is increasingly rare in anyone's
life. It is to be savoured. He is the willing prisoner of the
reflective prisms.
Here no mobile phones rings can assail, as
poor reception thwarts even those who would be disobedient, or
unaware. However it is a time not of tranquility, but rather of
solitude. And yet he surrenders himself easily. The man waits.
The
man reaches down to check his watch. Not for the first time. Not
for the second time, either. Not even for the third or fourth time.
Again, he looks, again, not seeing, he rather senses that it is not
yet time. His life seems to pause as he considers the momentous
undertaking that lies before him, that will speak so decisively about
his future.
Yes, on one hand it could be considered as merely a
job interview. On the other hand, what an interview!
This is
the culmination of months, years, decades of planning and careful
execution. It was due to this that a younger man, his earlier
incarnation, endured endless sleepless nights, and countless fervid
days. It was because of this that he pushed himself far beyond the
edge and then fell and drowned in a sea of coffee for the sake of
maintaining a semblance of sanity to the watching world.
That
younger man had been less burdened with life, experiences,
disappointments and personal failures.
Now his dream stands
before him, as magnificent as the edifice in which he himself stands,
as close but not quite tangible as his own breath, and yet...dented
somehow...less glistening. Crashingly audible, but with a faintly
hollow echo.
Victory is surely at hand, but it is surely to be
a less satisfying victory. Life and life lessons, bittersweet
experiences with bittersweet people have taken a little of the sheen
off his goal, removed a layer of lustre from his golden trophy. And
yet it is still a victory, all the same. It still gleams in his
eyes, if a little less brightly. This is his dream! This has been
his goal!
The younger man mastered the art of the perfect
facade for an onlooking world. He had never wanted anyone to see
quite how crazy he was...how desperate. The older man has not lost
any of that skill. Outward calmness masks a heart fraught with fear,
anxiety but also surging confidence.
He looks down at his
watch. No, still not time. His eyes are arrested by the play of
light from the square windows overhead. He lets himself be
distracted. He smiles whimsically at the effortless rhythm of each
square, marching in its own place in space and time. He watches how
his own shadow is caught and contorted in each little reflection.
There is a sadness in that light, that mirrors the sadness in his own
heart. And he knows that today, of all days, this sadness can only
help, so today, of all days, he embraces it, with the awkwardness of
friends who have fallen out of touch.
For the first time, he
looks around him. He suddenly sees. He sees the marble floor, the
cold smoothness of polished steel. He shivers. This place could be
a mausoleum. He shivers again. His mausoleum! Here he will
be entombed in living death, coming only to life behind those doors,
doors which are currently closed to him with a dreadful finality. But
he sadly smiles again to himself. He does not mind. After all, this
is what he has been living for. This is what he could have died for!
Suddenly the door opens, and he springs back to life. This
is it! He will go in and play, and play and play and play. The
music that he has been carefully storing up in his soul for so many
years will now burst forth, as out of a burst dam.
The pretty
attendant looks so young, but perhaps she is not much younger than
he. Perhaps she also plays. She addresses him.
"Are you
ready, Mr Jones?"
Mr Jones reaches down for his violin, and
confidently walks forward.
"Yes, I'm ready."
He
walks boldly forwards.
"Yes, yes, I'm ready."
Note from the Author, Oluwatosin Ojumu
Thank you so much for reading "Les Études
- Water". I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I
enjoyed writing it. I've always been fascinated by the themes of
translucence and reflection represented by water and writing this
ebook has provided an opportunity to explore some of these
themes.
The Poem-Stories in "Water" are inspired mostly
by the beautiful photos of Elaine Vallet, available at her website at
http://site.elainev.com/
!
Oluwatosin Ojumu is a writer, blogger and webdesigner. She has
written a number of other Études,
also available on Smashwords.
Les
Études - The Nature Series: Samples
: Free Ebook of Samples of Études from the Nature Series
Les
Études - The Nature Series: Full Collection :
Full Collection of Études
from the Nature Series
Please stay tuned for further series
of Études and other
works being made available via Smashwords!
Discover more books by Oluwatosin
Ojumu at Smashwords: coming
soon!
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/oluwatosinojumu
Discover
more books published by Ore-Ofe Publishing at
Smashwords.com:
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